


Memorial Day

by Roshwen



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Memorial Day - Sherlock style, Sending a message
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-14
Updated: 2013-04-30
Packaged: 2017-11-25 12:24:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/638874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roshwen/pseuds/Roshwen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been one year, and Sherlock commemmorates his fall... Sherlock style. John is amused, Mycroft very much is not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John woke on a certain morning to find the other half of his bed empty. The deafening silence around him indicated the rest of the flat was empty as well. That was not unusual when your partner was a Consulting Detective with whirlwind ambitions and a tendency to explode at least once a week, but John couldn’t help feeling the seeds of dread and self-doubt settling in the fertile earth of his gut. 

On any other day, Sherlock’s absence wouldn’t be a problem. He’d come dashing back in around midday, all excited and talking at a hundred miles an hour while John tried both making tea and sense out of it all.

On any other day, John would stay in bed seeing as it was 7.00 am and he had nothing better to do. No clinic duty, no experiments gone wrong that needed cleaning and no lover to pester for sex.

On any other day, he’d lie back and revel in the feeling of Not Doing Anything.

This was not any other day.

So John got out of bed, ruthlessly cutting down what were no longer seeds but fresh, young stalks of panic, and went into the kitchen in search of either tea or his phone.

The tea was located with ease. While waiting for the kettle to boil, John continued the hunt for his phone, which, fortunately, turned out to be in a helpful mood; led by a flashing light and the muffled sound of Sherlock saying ‘John, I need you’ (John was still torn between the humiliation of asking Sherlock to change his text alarm back again and the smirks he got from everyone who happened to hear it; Lestrade had needed five full minutes before he could breath properly again), he dug it out from between the couch cushions. He had absolutely no idea how it had gotten there, which, in his current state, he found to be a relief.

Back in the kitchen, he finished brewing the tea and read the text while sipping the cuppa.

The first text read: _Don’t panic. SH_

John smiled. They weren’t exactly big, friendly letters, but they did him the world of good. They meant Sherlock was still alive and still with John, in every sense of the word. More so, it meant that Sherlock had known what day it was (far from a given), had considered and correctly predicted how John would react to his absence today and had actually made an effort to make him feel better.

John suddenly felt a warmth in his stomach that had nothing to do with his tea.

Feeling ten stone lighter, he read the second text.

_Turn on the news. SH_

This caused a frown. What the hell had Sherlock done now?

His phone buzzed. Another text, from Mycroft this time.

  _I will speak to the both of you about this. MH._

John turned both his frown and his expletives up a notch, before switching the telly on.

He nearly dropped his cuppa before putting it very cautiously on the coffee table and slowly sinking down onto the sofa.

‘… turned up all around the city,’ a reporter was just saying. ‘It’s like every junior delinquent with a spray paint can has doubled their efforts and started covering the whole of London with their message. The police, when asked, stated that they simply don’t have the manpower to control this. They do their best, but the painters are everywhere, and they are fast; it only takes a few seconds and then they’re gone.’

The newsreader in the studio nodded wisely to this. ‘But surely, there has to be a reason behind all this. Is there any information about why this is happening?’

‘Not yet,’ the reporter answered, ‘but word has just come in that various radio stations have received an unspecified but huge amount of money from _someone,_ with the sole request to play ‘Stayin’Alive’ by the Bee Gees every hour and mention the phone number of the suicide helpline. No information on the identity of this Good Samaritan has come forth yet, but you can be sure people are _dying_ to know who he is, and whether or not he is involved in the graffiti campaign.’

The lame pun earned a laugh from the newsreader and an eye roll from John. He switched the TV off and went to get dressed. The grin on his face would be impossible to remove without the help of an axe.

He knew where to go.

ooOoo

John had just rounded the corner and come in view of St Bart’s when he heard his phone. Having already spotted the figure on the rooftop, he picked up and said: ‘If you’re about to tell me to turn around and walk back the way I came from, I’m going to scream.’

Sherlock’s voice sounded calm and collected as always, shattering what was quite possibly John’s worst déjà vu ever. ‘Come up here. I want to show you something.’

He was met on the rooftop by a gust of wind and a Sherlock Level 3 Scrutinising Stare ™. Possibly trying to figure out his reaction to finding his partner on the rooftop of St Bart’s, on this day, _again,_ John thought, keeping his face carefully blank and taking the opportunity to do a little staring of his own, drinking in the sight of Sherlock. His tall and slender figure, the mop of black curls, the razor-sharp cheekbones now rosy with cold, the pale eyes drilling a hole in John’s skull, but most of all he saw the slow rise and fall of his chest and the little white clouds of breath coming from between his lips, and suddenly John couldn’t bear the distance between them anymore.

Sherlock caught him as he barreled into him, wrapping his arms around him so tightly John could barely breathe. In turn, John clutched at the coat and clung on for dear life, nose buried somewhere convenient between scarf and coat collar.

Neither had spoken a word, but words were redundant. Everything that needed saying out loud had been said long ago, and now they were only too happy to let their bodies do the talking. Hands were stroking up and down a back, thumbs were tracing soothing half circles on a nape, frames were pressing together so firmly there that not even a penny could have been slipped through between them and all of them were saying _it’s okay, it’s fine, it’s all fine._

Gradually they both relaxed, but they still didn’t let go of each other. Instead, John brought up a hand to cup Sherlock’s face and kissed him, the long, warm and affectionate kiss of two people who’ve known each other for a very long time and hope to be together for an even longer time.

Only then they broke apart for real, but not without some covert coat-clutching and jacket-holding here and there. And only then was John the first to break the silence.

‘You’ve been busy,’ he said, grinning broadly when he recalled the news broadcast. ‘Mycroft has already threatened to lecture us about all this. He was not amused.’

Sherlock’s grin matched John’s own. ‘I know. He has texted me seven times this morning, and tried to call me twice.’

‘So this is your version of a memorial day, is it? Spray painting the city and hijacking radio broadcasts? How did you even do this?’

‘I barely _hijacked_ anything,’ Sherlock protested, ‘I simply paid a lot of money to see a very serious social issue addressed. I told them it was for a good cause. As for the grafitti, let’s just say I collected a lot of favours from my network. It’s easy, once you get the word to spread. Chances are there are now people out spray painting who have no clue what’s going on, but who want to be in it anyway.’

‘Not telling the people at the radio stations what exactly the good cause was, of course,’ John said without venom. If Sherlock’s little stunt could serve two purposes, he was not one to object. ‘And the _unspecified but huge amount of money_? How did you pay them?’

‘You remember that case two weeks ago? The idiot with the race horse supposedly stolen by his neighbour, who turned out to be his trainer? He was very grateful.’

John smiled, recalling both the case and the very annoying and dimwitted client, who couldn’t recognise his own horse once its blaze had been painted over. ‘I bet he was. Now, what did you want to show me?’

Sherlock didn’t answer, but turned around and walked to the ledge. John followed him and burst out laughing when he saw the words _STAYING ALIVE_ spray painted on the ledge in flaming red letters.

‘Do you think he’ll appreciate it?’ he asked after a while, still giggling.

‘Well, I certainly hope he’s not watching down on us from heaven above, so I can’t be sure,’ was Sherlock’s reply. ‘But some of his people are still on the run. I’m sure they’ll get the message.’

He shifted closer to John and gradually the atmosphere changed as the two men looked past the ledge and to the ground beneath them.

‘I was standing right there,’ John pointed out softly.

‘And Moran was sitting right there,’ Sherlock pointed out. ‘You kept moving into his line of fire, and I had to keep telling you to go back and stay there.’

John had known for a while that he had not been the only one terrified to lose his partner that day, but seeing it like this did strange things to his stomach. He leaned into the solid frame next to him, again speaking without using words. Sherlock returned the pressure. _Likewise_.

They stood like that for a while, reminiscent of the very strange turns their lives together and apart had taken and unspeakably grateful of the outcome.

Sherlock’s stomach growling broke the silence. John sniggered and checked his watch. It was now 8.30 am and Sherlock must have been up and running for hours by now.

‘Breakfast?’ he asked.

Sherlock grinned. ‘Starving.’

ooOoo

Unfortunately, a sleek black car was waiting for them down on the street. It turned out Mycroft was  _really_ not amused.


	2. Epilogue: Earful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft gives the boys a, well, earful

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. This is just an experiment to see whether or not I can get away with just dialogue. Let me know what you think!
> 
> 2\. It might seem a bit familiar to some. That's because I never shout at people, so I needed an example and I believe I found a prime one.

‘What were you _thinking?’_

‘Look, all he was doing…’

‘John, stay out of this. Sherlock, what were you _thinking?’_

‘I just thought, since there are bound to be _some_ of Moriarty’s henchmen still on the loose, it would be appropriate to send them a little message I’m still not done with them.’

‘Spray painting the city does _not_ count as a little warning. So first you are encouraging street vandalism…’

‘I wouldn’t call it vandalism.’

‘Every teenager with a spray paint can is now out there, leaving _your_ message all over the public territory. What is that if not vandalism?’

‘Artistic expression, at most.’

‘Mycroft…’

‘John, stay out of this. But of course, you were just warming up because not only did you spray paint the city, you then chose to drive your point home by hijacking the radio stations.’

‘The idea was perfectly sound!’

‘The idea was perfectly childish! Did you know about it, John?’

‘No, I didn’t! Oh, and I’m allowed to speak again, am I?’

‘No, stay out of this.’

‘It was _my_ idea. It occurred to me that if I told the stations there was a very serious social issue I’d like to pay a lot of money for to see addressed and asked them if they would be willing to play a certain song every so often, I’d kill two birds with one stone. And so I would have done. If you…’

‘If I hadn’t intervened in this blatant display of the most arrogant and ignorant behaviour I have ever seen in an adult. Did it ever occur to you that the remainder of Moriarty’s web might be just as deadly as their deceased master? And that rubbing salt in the wounds of men who have nothing to lose might not be the safest course of action you could take? Not to mention the thousands and _thousands_ of pounds it will cost to clean the city and deal with the delinquents that did get caught? Did all of this ever cross your mind?’

‘That’s enough, Mycroft. We’re going.’

‘John, I believe I told you before to stay out of this.’

‘Yes, you did, and we’re still going. I’m sure you will find the manpower to deal with all the loose ends Moriarty left behind, though I’m a little surprised you haven’t managed to do so already. Sherlock, by my estimation, has been up and running for about five hours, without stopping for breakfast. I’d like very much to get him home before he passes out in your study. Sherlock, are you coming?’

‘Right behind you, John.’


End file.
